Welcome Home
by Chikku-Chikku
Summary: He came online one cold evening in a shattered universe. Shattered Glass verse, Ratchet-centric.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: The Shattered Glass Universe has always fascinated me, SG Ratchet especially. Evil throwing wrenches, yay? (And I just love his color scheme in SG... it's weird-ish, but cool) I thought I'd write something in honor of him and the fandom. I haven't explored much into TF regarding SG (or the normal G1 'verse, really), but I tried my best here. I know it won't be accurate, since I made it all up, and I haven't read the SG comics to validate if they talk about Ratchet's past. But hopefully, it'll still be enjoyable, and since these are drabbles and I've got three chapters done and exhausted most of my ideas, I probably won't be updating this much (if at all).

P.S. The title of this comes from the song 'Welcome Home' by Coheed and Cambria.

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><p><strong>Welcome Home <strong>

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><p><em>1.<em>

He came online one cold evening in a shattered universe.

The very first words he ever heard was, _"Welcome."_

Then, in one quick movement, something searingly hot was poured onto his helm. Two metallic hands instantly circled his face, holding him down as the liquid pooled over his forehead. The touch was fierce, a firm gesture that was both clinical and professional. But it was painful too.

The liquid's icy heat seared through his processor, forcing his body to jerk upright while his head remained pressed down by those hands. It slowly condensed, filling up a traced V pattern that was etched upon the top of his helm. He could feel his neural circuits firing up from the intense heat, just as his dull optics lit up in a burst of brilliant red.

He opened his lips to scream and found it tightly clapped together. The metallic hand roughly shoved his body back down in a laying position, and when he struggled, attempting to swing an arm at his attacker, he realized there was nothing there to swing with.

The voice murmured again, _"Welcome ... home."_

A sharp slab of metal was carelessly thrown upon his forehead, over the condensed liquid and the V pattern. The act was crude, and he knew that it wasn't by mistake. There was real anger there – anger for his struggling, and hatred.

The metallic hand gripped his face again as he spasmed from the cruel treatment, the touch raw and cold against his heated cheeks. He could feel the liquid molding with the metal over his forehead, forming sensitive connections and receptors on the lengths of the twin tips, down to the joined end. Static ran from those tips and into his central processor, heightening the senses already filling up his mind from the outside world.

Slowly, his vision became less of a blur and he could tell distinct objects from one another – putting names to his recent observations of unknown parts.

_Tears_, he noted, as droplets of foreign liquid slipped from his optics and collected underneath him. _Berth_, his mind supplied the word as he was once more pressed down upon the cold, metal bed.

Then he switched his sight on the person above, whose optics were now distinguishable and red, peering down upon him coldly. The person was still holding his face, but the pressure on the slab of metal was removed; instead, it was now placed on his side where he had no arms. The burning liquid was suddenly poured all over the gaping extension hole that was his shoulder-plate, scrambling his thoughts with a colorful wave of pain.

_C-creator, _he realized as he released a silent scream of agony. More of those 'tears' dripped down from his faceplate, and a sob welled up in his throat.

_My creator._


	2. Chapter 2

Note: SG Ratchet's creator is known as 'Creator' or more often 'his Creator' when I talk about him in the fic.

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><p><strong>Welcome Home<strong>

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><p><em>2.<em>

From the moment he first onlined, he knew he was created to be a medic.

The smell of the room, once his processor honed in on it, was oddly comforting – the scent of oil, energon, and the mixture of liquid substances found in chemical laboratories and medical bays. It wrapped itself around his writhing form and to his fritzed, overheated CPU, the aroma was pure bliss. He soaked in the sights of the deep color of lethargic red lights above his head, similar to the sky of his now-home world. The flash and glow of the ceiling in a too-clean, too-orderly, yet eerily quiet medical bay filled him with comfort. Even the low sounds of monitors beeping and spare metal parts clanging against a tray caused a smile to flit across his faceplates, spark thrumming quietly in contentment.

If he was a medic, then he would get to experience this everyday of his life.

He knew nothing else could work.

So when his Creator stepped back from the berth and indicated that he should do the same, there was no hesitation in his movement. Pain rushed throughout his system as he took his first step into the world, but this pain he had felt already and it was quickly growing numb. He would soon learn that pain would be nothing new. He would soon learn to relish the pain he felt, and the pain he would inflict upon others as a medical doctor.

"Your name is Ratchet," his Creator murmured as he stepped before him. He caught sight of his own red optics reflected back in his Creator's gaze. They were dark and subdued, the eyes of a stranger he did not know.

"R-ratchet...?"

"Yes. Ratchet, the medic."

_Ratchet the medic._

It rang so clearly, so soundly, in his head.

He tried it out loud. "Medic ... _me_. Ratchet the _medic_." And the words tasted so sweet on his glossa that he gave a startled laugh.

His Creator returned his smile with a nod of his head, the optics reflected back in his gaze full of brilliant and maniac delight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Welcome Home**

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><p><em>3.<em>

Ratchet knew that he had been created with a purpose, and he pursued said purpose with fierce vigor. It was almost mad, the intensity in which he chased after his life-long career. He delved into books and studies that exceeded far past the normal requirements of a mediocre field doctor, advancing into the sciences of neurology and prying into the depths of anatomical structures in both mechs and femmes. There was an almost sinister intent in his pursuit for knowledge and experience and many times, he found his Creator giving him suspicious looks.

But he never spoke up once about Ratchet's fevered eagerness.

There were countless times when Ratchet would appear in his Creator's medical bay, tending after patients that couldn't be seen to fast enough. He watched with avid attention as his Creator gave him pointers and tips on both simple and complex forms of surgery or repairs, even taking notes once something of interest caught his optic. He seemed like an attentive, very capable mech, someone who was likely to succeed in the future.

However, there was something _off _about him.

One day, his Creator caught him staring off into space as he performed mock surgery on a drone. By accident, Ratchet slashed off some part of the drone's body – a servo, a digit, even an optic – only to zone back in time to stare down at the severed limb... and _laugh_. Then he had silently grabbed the body part, stalked off into the medical office adjacent to the med bay, and remained there for many joors. When he came back out with blueprints, his Creator watched in surprised interest as the mech constructed a deadly replacement for the severed body part.

The servo was replaced by a saw-cutter. The digit by a sharp knife-like weapon. The normal optic by one that shot laser beams. All of these improvements would have been acknowledged and very susceptible for future study – if not for their disastrous side-effects. The saw-cutter servo and knife digit couldn't be used for anything but attack; the unfortunate mech wielding them wouldn't be able to hold onto things, pick up things, or even touch another without harming the recipient. The laser beam optic gave a mech immense power, but it also short-circuited sensitive wirings in the optical center, which, in many cases, resulted in permanent blindness.

So when Ratchet approached his Creator with his finished products, he had been rejected immediately. His Creator never bothered to explain to the young mech _why _it wouldn't work and as a result, he remained clueless.

After that initial day, Ratchet was changed. Though he still continued his studies through books and tests on fake patients, he also began to actively _create_ instead of _heal _components already there. He made more and more of his weapons, conducted countless experiments and, using his prior knowledge on anatomical structure, ran statistics on various mech body parts he could use.

He believed he was doing the world a service and ignored his Creator's warnings against his change. Rather, he was _hurt_ by his Creator's lack of approval – after all, wasn't _this_ what he was created for? Wasn't his purpose in life to be a medic, someone who _helped_ others, _improved_ them, even?

"You are _not_ helping them," his Creator murmured when Ratchet had demanded an explanation for his displeasure.

"Yes I am! Can't you see how happy they are?" At this, Ratchet gestured to his three patients settled on one cramped berth, their optics wide in terror as straps held them in place. He'd tricked them into the medical bay and performed his experiment without his Creator's permission, not caring about the consequences he would receive. "See? Just look at them ... their optics are so bright with joy!" the mech cooed, smiling almost insanely.

One of the three mechs, whose vocalizer was destroyed by the massive cannon that protruded from his neck, gave a static-filled sob. Liquid fell from his optics, rivets of energon escaping from numerous wounds on his body.

His Creator turned to Ratchet silently, red optics appraising. "Do you really think they are happy, Ratchet?"

The mech glanced at his Creator, then back to the huddled mess of metal and blood that were his patients. He canted his head to the side, sincere innocence in his voice. "Why, yes, I do." The light in his own optics was hard to miss. A light that was bathed in deep, crimson red.

_Ah... I see._

Now a brief flicker of a smile crossed his Creator's faceplates. He knew that look well; he'd witnessed it everyday himself – when he happened to glance in a mirror. Slowly, he nodded his head, very much like the first time Ratchet had online, with absolute approval in his gaze. "Very well then, Ratchet, my medic. You may continue your experimenting."

It was then that Ratchet finally embraced his one purpose in life. _Causing pain. _Improving_ pain._

The medic grinned as he faced his patients again, contentment humming in his chest. The smell of mech-blood circled the air around him, choking the room with its heavy stench of fear and decay.

Oh, but it was pure bliss to him.


End file.
